


Aftermath

by grimeslincoln



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8380747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimeslincoln/pseuds/grimeslincoln
Summary: Rick and the group learn how to survive after the arrival of Negan. (Each chapter will explore different character's responses to the events in 7x01)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece of work on here, so I hope you all enjoy it!

Every time Michonne closed her eyes she felt as if she was kneeling in that clearing in the woods all over again; the sound of wood violently colliding with bone echoed in her ears, the feeling of her friend’s warm blood splattering against her cheek still fresh in her mind. The worst part was the image, replaying itself over and over again in front of her eyes, of Glenn’s mutilated face as he forced himself to speak through the unimaginable pain that consumed him, to deliver one final message to his wife.

The burn of hot water against her skin snapped Michonne out of her trance, the water that was rushing from the shower head disguising the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She let it run over her skin, the scalding heat a welcome contrast to the freezing air that had slowly seeped in to her bones whilst she knelt in the gravel, and watched as the dirt and grime that had been stuck to her washed away down the drain. Fear struck her as she watched thick, dark blood start to swirl in with the water and she hurriedly began to search her body for any cuts or scratches that she had missed, until it dawned on her that it wasn’t her blood. It was his.

She retched as she remembered Abraham slowly being beaten into the ground next to her, becoming covered in more and more of his blood with every swing of the bat. She winced as she thought about the way that he had risen back up, one last act of defiance, before Negan delivered the fatal blow, laughing in delight as he continued smashing his skull to pieces until there was nothing left but blood and brains.

She switched the shower off in one swift movement, desperate to rid herself of the images running through her head, and wrapped one of the towels that had been supplied for them around herself, before exiting the bathroom. She quietly crept back out into the room that they had been allocated in Barrington House, careful not to wake Carl who was curled in a ball on the vintage sofa, his arms wrapped protectively around his torso and his eyes swollen from where he had finally stopped holding back his tears. She smiled sadly as she watched him sleep, thinking about all the horror and death that the poor boy had experienced, yet always seemed to manage to bounce back from. She looked around the room, ignoring the vibrant paintings that adorned the walls and the king sized bed that demanded attention, instead searching for the man who had been protectively watching over his son when she had left to take a shower. He was nowhere to be seen. She knew that she shouldn’t worry, that he had probably just gone to speak to Gregory, or check in on Maggie, but it was hard not too considering the situation and the state of mind that Rick was currently in.

Using deep breaths, Michonne managed to return her heart rate to normal, instead deciding to search around the room for something to ease her nerves. It took a while, considering that the room was pretty bare and wasn’t usually occupied, however she hit the jackpot when she opened the cupboard underneath the bedside cabinet, revealing a stash of liquor that someone had clearly hidden there. She snatched the first bottle she could get her hands around, barely bothering to look at the label before twisting off the cap and pressing the glass to her lips, allowing the alcohol to burn as it slipped down her throat, immediately calming the anxiety that had been building in her chest.

Michonne wasn’t usually one to drink, she prided herself on keeping healthy and fit, and with the world as it was now she preferred to keep a clear head at all times but this time she she was in too much pain to even care; she was pretty sure that their situation couldn’t get much worse than it was and her drinking was hardly going to do much damage.

She sighed as she lowered the bottle, lifting herself on to the large bed and leaning back in to the soft cushions that decorated it. She sank down in to the mattress, the comfort welcome, but feeling alien compared to the rough floor that she had been kneeling on for hours beforehand. Michonne felt the guilt start to creep as she took another swig from the bottle; hated herself for sitting there comfortable and clean when two of her friends lay dead outside, there bodies wrapped in sheets and their lives over. They would never again be able to lie in a soft bed or drink good liquor. She quickly returned the cap to the top of the bottle and shoved it back in to the bedside cabinet; no alcohol was worth the amount of guilt that she felt when she drank it.

Just as she returned the bottle to it’s home she heard the door to the room click open, causing her muscles to instinctively tense, her hands ready to grab the closest object to use as a weapon. It turned out that her caution was unnecessary, because when the door swung open it was Rick who stumbled in. Initially Michonne thought that he was injured; he was hunched over, his head bowed so that she was unable to see his face, his feet moving so slowly that he was almost stopped. As he neared closer however, she realised that he was merely exhausted.

“Hey,” she called out to him softly, careful not to wake the sleeping teenager on the sofa. Rick’s head lifted at her voice, his eyes instantly meeting hers.

The woman nearly gasped at the sight in front of her; never had she seen the man she loved look so utterly broken. His eyes conveyed the emotions of a scared little boy, his body was trembling, his sweat drenched hair plastered to his forehead and matted with blood and his arms wrapped protectively around himself. Michonne felt her heart breaking at the sight in front of her; she hated seeing Rick look so utterly defeated and knowing that there wasn’t a single thing she could do to help him.

“Hey,” he managed to croak out in response, his voice harsh from crying. “I-I was…I was just,” his voice cracked as he struggled to finish his sentence, his eyes darting frantically around the room as if he would find an answer.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Rick obliged, turning to meet her eyes. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Michonne’s voice was smooth and reassuring and Rick seemed to visibly relax at her words. Michonne pushed herself on to her knees, crawling towards the end of the bed to where Rick was standing, careful not to let her towel slip. She reached her arms out to him, motioning for him to come to her. Rick watched her, his expression wary at first, however he soon snapped out of his daze and stepped towards her. When he was close enough, Michonne gently took his hands in her, his skin calloused and rough against hers, and started to lead him on to the bed. Rick seemed confused at first, but Michonne gently pressed her hand to his face, softly caressing his cheek as she moved his eyes to meet hers.

“Trust me.” Rick nodded, lifting his body so that he was knelt on the bed, allowing Michonne to drag him back up to the headboard. She settled herself so that she was sitting against the cushions. Before Michonne knew what was happening, Rick was practically curled up on her lap, his head buried in her chest and his arms wrapped tightly around her body. She felt as his tears fell on to her skin, rolling down the curves of her chest and getting soaked up by the towel that covered it, and held Rick as uncontrollable sobs racked through his body. She knew that this was what he needed; he needed someone to hold him, to comfort him, to reassure him that everything was going to be okay, even if it wasn’t true.

“Shh,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his head, allowing her fingers to run themselves through the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I-I…I’m sorry,” Rick stammered, his entire body shaking.

“It’s not your fault,” Michonne told him.

It physically hurt her to see how much he was blaming himself. She could see the weight of the blame that he was carrying; he thought that the deaths of his friends was his fault, that he had caused it, that he should have prevented it, and the weight on his shoulders only increased when he saw the grieving people around him. That was why Michonne knew that she had to be strong for him. When he didn’t respond to her words Michonne moved her hands to either side of his face, moving him so that his face was inches from hers. “It is not your fault,” she told him, determination and surety lacing her tone.

“Okay, it is not your fault.”

Rick looked at her for a moment, searching her expression for any trace of doubt, as if he was checking that she was telling him the truth. Finally he nodded, the shaking in his body eventually stopping and his tears slowing.

“There is nothing that you could have done. Nothing. If you had then we would all be dead right now, okay? Because of you, because of what you were willing to do, the rest of us are still here. So do not blame yourself, not when it’s that monster who caused all of this.” Michonne could see Rick taking in her words, processing them until he slowly started to believe her.

“Okay.”

Michonne released a breath that she wasn’t aware she had been holding, pulling Rick back in to her chest and wrapping her arms around him reassuringly. She could feel how much calmer he was, could sense as the tension began to leave his body, his muscles relaxing as she held him. 

“How’s Carl?” Rick broke the comfortable silence that had settled over them. Michonne peered over at the peacefully sleeping boy, who she loved like her own son, and sighed.

“He’s doing okay. He’s exhausted; I told him he could sleep in the bed but he fell asleep the moment he sat down.”

“The things that he saw today-” Rick started, and Michonne could feel him getting worked up again. She knew how much Rick loved Carl and how traumatising it must have been for him, to nearly be forced to mutilate his own child. It was something that Rick would never forgive himself for.

“Hey, don’t go there,” she cut him off, firmly. She didn’t want him going down that path, because once he started, he wouldn't stop. “He’s strong and he’s resilient, he will bounce back from this. It might take a while but he’ll be okay.” Rick gulped.

“What if he hates me? What I nearly done to him…what I nearly done to my own son.”

“Rick, listen to me,” he peered up at her, “he understood. You might not think he did but he did. He knows what would have happened otherwise. He understands that you had no choice.”

“And what you did. He could have killed you Mich, and if he had I don’t know what I would have done. I-I can’t lose you, I can’t, I can’t…” Rick started to become frantic again, his arms tightening around Michonne as if he thought she was going to disappear, tears spilling down his cheeks once again.

“I am not going anywhere. You hear me? Me and Carl, neither of us are going anywhere. Okay? I’m still with you. No matter what happens, no matter what Negan does, I am still with you. Understand?”

Rick stared at Michonne, as if in awe of her. Michonne couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her with so much love and admiration. Even in this heart-breaking time, it filled her with the slightest bit of hope, that maybe, just maybe, they would get through this.

Rick pressed a chaste kiss to her mouth in response to her words, the salty taste of his tears mingling between their lips. It was soft and quick, but she knew what it meant. Her lips tingled from the contact and she smiled sadly at the man in front of her. They stared at each other for a moment, almost as if drawing strength from one another.

Maybe they would make it. Together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the second chapter is completed, I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for all of the positive feedback on the first chapter!!  
> (p.s. Daryl is slightly featured in this chapter, back at ASZ with the rest of the group, as I tweaked it a little bit and made it so that he was never taken by Negan!)

Maggie felt as though she was drowning; her chest burned and her lungs ached every time she inhaled a breath of oxygen, as if her body was struggling to function, and her muscles throbbed with every miniscule movement that she made, resisting. Everything around her appeared as though she were underwater; noises sounded far away and distant, like there was a barrier between her and everybody else, and her perception was almost distorted; she was unable to focus on anything properly without her head throbbing.

She suspected that the constant pain she was experiencing was due to the lack of sleep she had gotten in the past two days since that night in the clearing. She wanted to sleep; she really did, but every time she closed her eyes she could see every gruesome detail repeated in her mind, could hear the crunch of bone, felt the grief ripping through her all over again. It was like a constant loop playing over and over again behind her closed eyelids, like a broken record; one minute Glenn was looking across to her, broken but alive, and the next Lucille was smashing in to his skull, the impact forcing him on to the ground as Negan laughed in triumph.

She could see him pushing himself back up, his eyes meeting hers, instead this time it wasn’t the beautiful face of her husband that she saw but the bloody, disfigured portrait that Negan had created. For a moment, as he strained to speak, she kidded herself in to thinking that maybe that was it; maybe Negan would stop, maybe he would leave him like that and they could get him to Hilltop, that he could be patched up. That he could survive.

That was until Negan merrily swung the bat back in to his mangled face, pounding away until there was nothing left of the man she loved.

The worst part of going to sleep was waking up; for the first few blissful seconds of consciousness she forgot what had happened. Forgot that he was gone. For those fleeting moments it was as if he was still there with her, that she would roll over on the sheets towards the warmth of his sleeping body, be held in his embrace for a little while longer until they had to get up for their shifts.

Then the images would come flooding back like a tsunami and it would be like losing him all over again. Every time she opened her eyes he was ripped away from her and every time it felt as if she lost a part of herself. She would glance over to the empty side of the bed where he used to lie, still able to smell the scent of his shampoo and the aftershave that he had found in one of the cupboards on his pillow, still feel the ghost of his touch on her skin.

That’s how she ended up where she was now; sprawled on her side of the bed at 6am, basking in the morning sunlight that leaked through the windows, staring up at the ceiling with Glenn’s pillow clutched so tightly in her hands that her knuckles were white, inhaling what was left of his aroma despite the throbbing in her lungs. It felt as if she had been lying there for hours, as the darkness of the night transitioned to the orangey hue of dawn, clinging on to what was left of Glenn.

She would have laid there forever, consumed in denial, but the baby in her stomach and the morning sickness she had been experiencing for the past week had different ideas. After the group had arrived at Hilltop on the night of the incident, broken and devastated, and Jesus had convinced Gregory to allow them to stay the night, Aaron had taken Maggie to the obstetrician, who had completed a thorough examination of her and finally reassured her that both the baby and her would be fine. She wasn’t certain about the latter part of his diagnosis.

Maggie forced herself up, the nausea she was experiencing outweighing her desire to stay in bed, stepping on the the cold wood of the bedroom floor and prayed that her weak legs wouldn’t give out before she made it to the bathroom. She began to stumble across the room, using the furniture to support her shaking frame, and she had nearly made it to the en-suite when the sight of a sleeping girl, curled up on the armchair in the corner, brought her to a halt.

Enid had clearly been there all night; she had stuffed her body on to the small, lumpy chair, her head folded in to her chest and her limbs sticking out at awkward angles. She was clearly exhausted, because despite how uncomfortable she looked, she was sound asleep, soft snores occasionally emitting from her. Even through the pain, it warmed Maggie’s heart to see the young girl dozing in the corner, clearly having slept there because she didn’t want to leave the grieving woman on her own. It was a small gesture but it meant a lot. Maggie contemplated leaving her there, but it was quickly approaching the time in the morning where everybody began to awaken, and she was certain that if she laid in that position any longer, she would eventually become too stiff to move.

So Maggie crossed to the other side of the room, taking a moment to admire how peaceful Enid looked as she slept, before gently shaking her awake. The young girl seemed dazed at first, blinking sleep out of her eyes and yawning, before her entire body switched to alert mode; every muscle in her tensed and her eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for signs of danger.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Maggie reassured her softly, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder, “it’s only me.”

Enid’s tired eyes looked up into Maggie’s, a flash of embarrassment crossing her features before she smiled.

“Sorry, old habit.”

“I get it,” the older woman’s tone was soft and understanding and Enid seemed to appreciate it. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure that you have more comfortable places to sleep than on that old thing.”

“Oh…yeah. I just-I thought someone should be here, with you. And I’m pretty sure that Aaron’s passed out on the sofa downstairs as well.”

Maggie couldn’t help but smirk at the last part of Enid’s statement. She wouldn’t have expected anything less from Aaron; he had been brilliant these past few days.

“Well as much as I appreciate the company, you could probably do with some more sleep.”

“I’m fine, really-”

“Please,” Maggie cut her off; the last thing she needed was Enid collapsing from exhaustion. “Just go and get a couple more hours sleep. For me.”

Enid contemplated Maggie’s words for a moment before nodding, stretching her stiff limbs as she forced herself out of the chair and on to her feet.

Before Maggie could process what has happening, Enid’s arms were wrapping themselves around her neck and the young girl was pressed against her in a comforting hug, her soft hair rubbing against the skin of her neck. The embrace lasted a few seconds and then Enid was pulling away, turning on her heels and clambering out of the bedroom window with such speed and grace that Maggie was convinced she had done it a thousand times before.

And so Maggie was left alone in the emptiness of the bedroom, the sunlight filtering through the blinds, desperately trying to ignore the overwhelming urge to throw up that was rising in her throat.

* * *

 

It was a solemn day in Alexandria; the streets, which were usually filled with chatting neighbours and playing children, were barren and empty, the curtains in every house were drawn shut and a sadness filled the air. It was almost as if the community itself could sense the loss that the group had experienced.

Maggie stood in the makeshift graveyard, thick mud clinging to her boots, flanked on either side by her family, staring down at the grave in which her husband’s body would soon be lowered.

Almost every person in Alexandria had gathered to pay their respects, excluding some of the younger children and the elderly residents who were unable to leave their homes. Maggie could feel her grief suffocating her; every breath was a struggle, every movement too much effort for her fragile body. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d managed to keep food down and sleep was a distant memory. Every thought in her mind revolved around what she had lost; the prospect of never being able to see Glenn’s bright smile again, hear his gentle voice or feel his skin against hers almost made her not want to carry on. He had been the light in the darkness; the sole reason that she bothered to get out of bed in the morning and now he had been stolen from her, murdered senselessly in cold blood, his entire future ripped away from him in seconds.

She was distracted from the anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach by the sensation of Carl’s hand slipping in to her own. She peered down at the boy on her left, his signature hat balancing on his head, jaw clenched to hold back his tears, stern eyes focused ahead. She was grateful for the comfort of his touch, the subtle reminder that she wasn’t alone; she had her family around her, people that loved her.

She took a deep breath and swallowed down the bile rising in her throat, desperately fighting the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks.

_You can do this, you can do this_ , she told herself, repeating the mantra under her breath, hoping that maybe if she told herself it enough, maybe it would become true.

She had almost convinced herself that she would get through this day when she felt the grip of Carl’s hand tighten, causing her to lift her head, her eyes snapping to where Rick and Daryl were appearing from behind the row of trees, balancing the weight of Glenn’s body between them. They were closely followed by Eugene, Spencer and Aaron struggling to carry Abraham’s larger corpse.

She tried her best not to focus on the curves of his body under the sheet, attempted not to imagine what his poor, disfigured face looked like, but it was impossible, and before she knew it her legs were crumpling beneath her. However she never hit the ground, because the next thing she knew she was being held in Sasha’s embrace, the other woman’s strong arms supporting her shaking frame. She couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked through her body as she clung on to Sasha like a wailing baby, gasping for oxygen. She felt Sasha rest her chin upon her head, her tears dripping down in to Maggie’s hair as the two women stood together over the graves of their loved ones, supporting each other in their anguish.

The rest of the makeshift ceremony flew past in a blur, all of Father Gabriel’s speech merging together until it was indistinguishable, and the family stood around, honouring the fallen. Rick looked almost ghostly; his eyes tired and bloodshot and his skin pale, a quivering hand grasped tightly in Michonne’s as she clutched a snoozing baby Judith. Eugene and Rosita stood side by side, their shared grief having brought them closer together, Rosita’s face blank except for the the tear tracks that stained her cheeks. Aaron watched quietly, trying to keep his weeping quiet, whilst Eric placed a comforting arm around his shoulder and Daryl was nearly completely hidden in the shadows, long hair sheltering his eyes, making his expression unreadable.

Eventually Gabriel’s voice ceased and one by one, every member of the group stepped forwards to throw a handful of dirt in to the graves and say their final goodbyes, until it was Maggie’s turn. She pulled away from Sasha, willing her ailing legs to support her, and made her way towards her husband, wiping the tears that spilled down her cheeks with the cuff of her jacket. She reached the edge of the grave, and stood for a few seconds, plucking up the courage to look down at his body. When she finally did she almost choked on her sobs, the mere sight of seeing her husband’s body, wrapped in a sheet and laid in a grave too much to handle.

Never did she think, despite all of the death and pain that she had experienced, that she would be burying Glenn of all people, the one person who had continuously been there to support and love her. She closed her eyes, hopelessly attempting to keep the image of his face out of her head, but it was futile.

She ignored the pictures in her brain, instead reaching to grab a handful of the crumbling mud, preparing to say her farewell. She finally pushed herself to throw the dirt into the grave, Glenn’s face prominent in her mind as she done so.

After a moment of hesitation she extended her muddy hand in to her pocket, her fingers wrapping around the paper inside of it before pulling it out. She gazed down at the scan of their baby in her palms, one of her tears spilling down on to the image. Maggie pressed a kiss to the paper and took a deep breath before dropping it in to the grave, along with Glenn, where it belonged.

“You found us.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the new chapter is finally up! I really hope you enjoy it and I'd really appreciate it if you could leave any comments or feedback!
> 
> (Just a note; I wrote Rosita as experiencing a lot of anger in this chapter, especially towards certain people. I don't necessarily think that this will happen in the show, but it's the way that I've interpreted it for the purpose of this fanfic!)

Rosita’s shaking hands clasped themselves around the dirty silver chain, staring down at the dull red fragment of brake light that she had attached to it only a week before. She had spent hours, sitting cross-legged on the living room rug in their house at Alexandria, crafting the necklace with her delicate fingertips until it was perfect, imagining the surprised look that would pass over Abraham’s features when she presented him with it.

She remembered how happy she felt when she had spotted him strolling casually down the street, the necklace dangling around his neck, next to his heart, a proud declaration of his affection for her.

And then, the night before, all of those emotions had become a distant memory as she witnessed, in horror, as he had been picked to die, like some sort of worthless pawn in a game. A part of her brain had known that it was going to be him, a nagging at the back of her mind, when she had seen the way that he squared up to the villain in front of them, eyes hard and daring, kneeling strong and tall. Rosita could almost hear what he was thinking, knew that he was sacrificing himself in order to secure the safety of the rest of his family.

Only it hadn’t worked and in the end his noble sacrifice had been for nothing; people had still died.

She could still remember the terror that had consumed her in that moment in the clearing, when the deadly bat came to a stop in front of Abraham’s face, and she came to the realisation that at any moment he was going to be ripped away from her. The night had been eerily silent, the only sound being produced was from the whistling of the wind through the branches of the trees, until Negan had taken the first swing, causing the forest to explode into a pandemonium of devastated screams and sobs. She had found her eyes glued to the gruesome scene unfolding in front of her; unable to rip her eyes away, regardless of desperately wanting to, as Abraham was brutally beaten to a pulp, skull spilling open and body convulsing in pain.

Rosita was currently leaning against the kitchen counter in their deadly silent residence, the cool marble pressed against the exposed skin at the small of her back, staring down at the necklace in her hands. The house seemed alien with the absence of Abraham’s colourful language and his booming voice echoing off of the walls. Despite him packing up and leaving days before, his presence was still notable; one of his flasks sat full of liquor on the coffee table, a pair of his dirtied boots were tucked away in the corner of the living room, a hole dented one of the plasterboard walls from where he had struck it in anger.

Rosita could feel the fury building inside her as the scanned the room, was overcome by her anger at him for leaving her, both by choice and by death, suddenly hurling the chain in her palm across the room, where it collided with the tiled wall and dropped in to the sink. She could feel the tears dripping down her cheeks, her lips tasting of their salt, and hated herself for crying over him in spite of everything he had done to her.

She had found the necklace she had given to him when they arrived at the Hilltop the night before, had spotted the glistening of the red brake light on the ground when she was walking back from laying his lifeless body down next to Glenn’s. She had collapsed onto her knees in the sand, vision blurred from crying, scrambling to pick the piece of jewellery up and had ended up sobbing on the ground, clutching it, the Hilltop residents staring in confusion, until Eugene had found her and led her back to their designated room and ordered her to get some rest.

Over the past twenty-four hours since Abraham’s murder, Rosita had slowly felt her overwhelming grief and sadness transform into a burning rage. She was furious at Abraham for abandoning her; for making her love him so much it hurt before packing up his stuff and moving across the road into Sasha’s house, leaving her crying on the bedroom floor, lonely and heartbroken. She could hear his words ringing in her ears;

_“When I met you, I thought you were the last woman on Earth. You’re not.”_ His harsh words had cut her like a knife, their entire relationship suddenly reduced to nothing but some sort of convenient arrangement. Rosita had battled with him through the end of the world, risked her life for him, offered her heart to him without hesitation (something that she done rarely and with great caution), only for him to throw it all back in her face as if it was nothing.

And then he had the audacity to go and get himself killed; abandoning her all over again. She knew it was stupid and illogical but she hated him for dying, for standing up to Negan like some sort of hero, without giving a second thought as to what it would do to her. And then there was her burning resentment directed towards the one person who probably deserved it the least; Rick.

Deep down, she knew that he wasn’t to blame; he had only done what he believed was right, as always, but every time her mind wandered to him, all she could do was think about how they would never have ended up in that situation if it wasn’t for the actions of their leader. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining all the different ways the situation could have gone; how if Rick hadn’t insisted on slaughtering the saviours then maybe the man she loved would still be here. He may not have been with her, but he would have been alive and breathing, not lying cold and still with his skull crushed in.

She could feel the anger boiling inside her, before escaping from her body in the form of a jarring scream, her fury consuming her as she sent the contents on the countertop flying to the floor in a fit of rage. They clattered against the wooden floor, the din reverberating throughout the otherwise silent house. She paused for a moment, catching her breath before realising that her outburst felt…good.

Rosita felt as if she had no control of her own body as she began to trash the kitchen, almost as if she was enduring an out of body experience. Jars and cutlery were thrown to the floor, glass smashing beneath her feet, plates lobbed against the wall, smashing in to pieces upon impact. She didn’t even notice as her feet carried her into the living room, couldn’t stop herself from wreaking havoc. She grabbed the coffee table that was obstructing her path, overturning it and sending the items that rested atop of it rolling on to the carpet, her hands clutched any objects they could find, tossing them across the room, the sound of shattering china and crashing furniture working to ease the ache in her chest.

She would have carried on all day, until there was nothing left of the house but rubble remains, if members of the group hadn’t started to burst in, alerted by the sounds of destruction. She would have been unaware of their presence in the doorway if it hadn’t been from the audible gasp that escaped Sasha’s lips as one of the vases that Rosita flung narrowly missed her head.

Rosita spun on her heel to face the onlookers, her chest heaving from exertion, fists clenched at her sides, tear tracks staining her face and adrenaline pumping through her veins. Rick, Michonne, Sasha and Spencer stood in the entrance to the house, a mixture of shock and pity in their expressions, whilst Eugene hovered on the stairs, staring at the ruins of their living room in horror.

“Well that’s going to be one mighty mess to clean up,” Eugene’s thick Texan accent cut through the silence that had fallen.

Everybody in the room ignored his comment, their eyes staying focused on the grieving woman in the middle of the room.

“Rosita, why don’t you sit down?” Rick offered, stepping forward to place a gentle hand on her elbow, but she snatched it away as if he had scalded her, glaring at him with such hatred in her eyes that he took a step back.

“Don’t you _dare_ touch me,” she growled, a finger pointed in his face accusingly.

Rick’s expression was of so much hurt that he looked as if someone had punched him. At first he appeared confused, until it seemed to dawn on him as to why Rosita’s tone was laced with such loathing; she blamed him. The air was utterly silent, every person in the room anticipating what would happen next.

“Rosita, please, just-just let us help,” Rick begged her, voice broken. It was obvious that he had barely slept; his eyes were bloodshot, body exhausted.

The furious woman scoffed, feeling the anger return at his words.

“ _Help? Help!_ You want to help me?” she shouted incredulously. “Why the fuck would I want your help? You are the reason that we’re in this situation in the first place! You are the reason that he is dead! Why both of them are dead!”

Rosita stood panting after her outburst, staring at the horrified faces of the rest of her family. From their expressions, it was clear that none of them shared her opinion. Her eyes settled on Sasha, whose head was bowed, trying to hide the tears that escaped her eyes. Rosita almost laughed at her cheek; as if she had any right to cry over him.

_He wasn’t hers to cry over_ , she thought to herself.

“What the fuck are _you_ crying at?” Sasha’s head snapped up at Rosita’s vicious tone, rushing to wipe the tears from her cheeks with the cuff of her jumper.

“I-I was-” she attempted to explain herself, but was immediately cut off by the other woman.

“You were what? Crying over someone who isn’t yours to grieve?” Sasha stared at Rosita, disbelieving of what she was hearing. “He was mine! I loved him! I loved him and now he’s gone and it’s all your fault.” Her words were now directed towards Rick, who stared at her solemnly.

Sobs wracked through the young woman’s body as she stood in the middle of the wrecked room, body shaking and tears streaming down her face.

“I-I don’t know what to say…” Rick’s voice was almost a whisper as he stepped towards her, hesitantly.

“You can’t _say_ anything. Nothing you do is going to bring him back; you can spurt all the bullshit you like but he’s still going to be dead and it’s still going to be your _fault_ ,” she spat, voice sharp but broken.

“I didn’t mean for-”

Rosita couldn’t stand listening to him, couldn’t bear to hear his excuses, and before she could stop herself her arm was lifting, palm flat, aimed for Rick’ cheek.

Before she could land the slap, her hand was restricted from making contact with the man’s skin by Michonne’s firm grip around her wrist. Rick looked on in disbelief at the scene unfolding in front of his face, observing the standoff in shock. Michonne held Rosita’s arm suspended in mid air, centimetres from Rick’s face, her grip strong and unrelenting.

“You need to stop,” the older woman’s voice was calm and level, her eyes staring straight into Rosita’s, almost warningly. After a long, tense, moment, Michonne released her grip and Rosita’s arm dropped to her side.

A collective breath was released from the onlookers in the room.

Rosita closed her eyes, inhaling a deep breath and willing her heart to stop pounding in her chest. She could almost feel the adrenaline leaving her veins, and the anger along with it. But the absence of rage only made room for the presence of misery, and she could feel her body slowly tiring, the ache in her ribs and the shaking of her limbs now more prominent. Within seconds she was on the floor, her legs collapsing beneath her, as she sobbed in to the carpet, her grief flooding in, drowning her.

The rest of the family watched on in understanding as she wept, until Sasha slowly sank down in to a crouching position, slender fingers rubbing comforting circles in to the other woman’s back, whispering comforting words in to her ear as she supported her in their shared grief. Despite their differences, and the emotions that their grief brought out in them, however misplaced those emotions were, they both shared one thing that could bring them together; they had both loved Abraham.

And maybe that meant that they could get through it with the support of each other.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new chapter if finally up and I hope you enjoy it!! Thank you for all of the hits and positive feedback on this, I really appreciate it! Please feel free to leave any comments down below, I'd love to know what you think!
> 
> (I did diverge from canon on this, and instead of having Daryl be taken prisoner by Negan, I have written it so that he is back at ASZ with the rest of the group.)

Guilt.

Daryl could feel it gnawing away at him, every minute of every day, a constant clawing in his chest, reminding him of what he had done. The feeling only increased whenever he laid eyes on Maggie, whether she was walking casually down the streets of Alexandria or crying over the grave of her husband. It didn’t help that in the three weeks since the incident, her barely noticeable bump had begun to grow, until he couldn’t even glance at her stomach without experiencing the urge to throw up.

Daryl could hardly bare to be around the rest of the group; the company of others was almost suffocating, and every time somebody even glanced in his general direction the overwhelming paranoia began to set in, as if they were whispering about him, blaming him. It was unbearable.

No matter how many times Rick sat him down and reassured him that it wasn’t his fault, or how many times Aaron invited him for dinner and cooked him whatever he wanted as a way to make sure that he wasn’t on his own every night, he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he was drowning in self-hate.

He had experienced guilt before; remembered how he had felt it when he hadn’t arrived in time to save his brother from turning in to one of them, forced to witness him pale and unrecognisable, feasting on human organs, then again when he watched on helplessly as Beth’s youthful hope was ripped away in front of his eyes, and most recently; when Denise was murdered with his own weapon, instead of himself. But he had never experienced it on this level; to know that his own reckless actions had directly caused the brutal murder of a member of his family; somebody that he considered a brother. To know that Maggie was now a widow, and that her baby would be forced to grow up without a father, due to his stupidity, almost made him want to give up altogether.

He hadn’t slept in days, could sense that he was beginning to resemble the lethargic walkers due to the heavy bags under his eyes and the lifeless way that he ambled around from lack of energy, but every time he closed his eyes he was flooded with images of Negan’s gleeful smile as he bashed Glenn’s skull until it was nothing but a puddle of warm blood and splintered bone. He could picture Glenn’s unsuspecting face as Negan swung his weapon in to him, the young man too focused on watching Maggie, his constant priority, to even notice the bat before it collided with his face, his scarlet blood splattering against Daryl’s cheek, staining his skin.

He knew that he should stop distancing himself from the group, that isolating himself was unhealthy and that he needed the support of the people who cared about him, but he couldn’t help it; their faces were a constant reminder of what he had deprived them of and if anything, the way that they tried to comfort him almost made it worse. He wanted them to hate him, almost craved for them to yell at him, to blame him, but they didn’t. None of them did.

And so Daryl had dissociated himself from them; the last time he had spoken to Rick was becoming a distant memory, and he hadn’t been in contact with another person in days. The separation worked to ease the gripping ache in his chest and he could almost forget that he existed; allowed himself to be swallowed up by the endless pit of grief that he had been balancing precariously on the edge of.

That was how he ended up where he was now; wandering aimlessly through the acres of trees that surrounded Alexandria, his only companion being the half empty bottle of whiskey that he clutched in his calloused fingers. Deadly silence surrounded him, the only sound being emitted coming from the sway of the wind through the trees, the occasional groan of a distant walker and the twigs that snapped under the weight of his boots.

He felt utterly numb, the mixture of guilt and liquor having erased his body of all emotion and all ability to care about his own wellbeing; his entire body was covered in a thick layer of grime and dirt, the luxury of showering something that he didn’t feel he deserved, and he was wearing the same sweat drenched clothes that he had been for the past week. He felt as if he had been pointlessly meandering around the woods for days now, unable to muster up enough feeling to care about his empty stomach or the fact that he was completely defenceless, without a weapon or the energy to protect himself.

The lack of civilization and society out there allowed him to forget what he had done, and he could slowly feel himself morphing in to one of the lifeless creatures that he had previously fought against every day, devoid of any desire to carry on but unable to find it in himself to actually end it all.

Daryl was distracted from his morbid train of thought by the rustling of leaves and the guttural groans of one of the undead. He turned slowly in the direction of the noise, the alcohol running in his bloodstream slowing down his reaction rate, to find a walker shuffling towards him, the bottom half of its jaw hung low to reveal a rotten row of top teeth, flesh thinning and ripped and it’s face sunken in and dark, one of the sockets missing an eyeball. It was headed straight for him, having caught his scent, it’s feet dragging in the long grass, slowing down it’s movement.

Daryl watched on as the creature approached him, moans escaping its throat as it neared closer and closer, until it was inches away, so close that Daryl could smell it’s decaying flesh and witness its mutilated features up close. He stretched an arm out, stopping it, before it could grab him, his hand clutching at the weak bones in it’s shoulder. He always found the strength of the undead surprising; their instinctual need for human flesh driving them, until they were almost difficult to restrain.

The walker stretched its arms towards Daryl, making futile attempts to seize him. The man merely stood, staring at the thing in front of him, his body lacking the effort needed to push it off, or the actual desire to do so. Daryl already felt like the thing staring hungrily back at him; lacking purpose or direction, wandering aimlessly, void of any emotion except for pain.

 _Maybe this would be easier_ , he considered to himself; maybe the best thing he could do was to just stop fighting back; let the world die like it was trying too and let himself perish along with it.

All it would take was one slip of the hand, releasing the walker from his grasp, and it would all be over; he wouldn’t have to struggle through this fog of grief every day, attempting to desperately feel any sort of emotion other than this sense of responsibility. He took a swig from the bottle in the hand that wasn’t holding back the animated corpse, the strong liquor that burned his throat a welcome pain, before staring in to the one remaining, glazed over eye of the monster.

 _Just let go_ , a nagging voice repeated in the back of his mind. _It’s what you deserve._

Maybe it was right; maybe this would be his punishment for his actions. After all, why did he deserve to live his life when Glenn laid buried six feet under?

He lowered his outstretched arm, muscles relaxing in relief, almost, and an imaginary burden lifting from his shoulders as the creature took a step forwards, skeletal fingers latching on to Daryl’s shoulders and jaw snapping hungrily towards the exposed skin of the man’s neck. But before the creature’s blackened teeth could make contact with Daryl’s flesh, a sharp knife flashed out of nowehere, piercing the fragile material of it’s skull, blood spurting from the wound before the walker’s limp body fell to the floor in a heap.

Daryl’s eyes shot open at the commotion, to find Jesus, standing panting in front of him, long hair draped over his shoulder’s and a black bandana pulled up to cover the lower half of his face. The younger pulled the material down to reveal a concerned expression, tucking his bloodied knife back in to it’s sheath. A thick silence consumed the space between the trees as the two men stood, staring.

Daryl could barely believe what he was witnessing; the walker that had been a second away from biting him lay dead at his feet, whilst the last person he expected to see stood in front of him, as if waiting for an explanation. He could feel the shame creeping in to him as he realised that Jesus had seen what he was about to do; had stopped him in the middle of suicide.

“What the fuck was that?” Daryl shouted, deciding to let his anger at the man for interfering outweigh his embarrassment.

Jesus decided to ignore Daryl’s outburst, instead moving forwards to grab his left arm, inspecting the skin that his sleeveless shirt left exposed. The older man shoved him off before he could grab hold of his other arm, heart pounding from both his near death experience and the feel of the younger man’s soft hands against the muscles of his bicep.

“Get off,” Daryl grunted, lowering his head and allowing his long hair to shield his face as a way to hide the blush rising in his cheeks. The warmth flooding through his body was the last thing that he needed right now.

“Did it scratch you?” Paul’s voice was shaky and laced with concern, arm outstretched, ready to continue checking the other man for any cuts of grazes.

Daryl decided to ignore his question, instead delivering a rage-fuelled kick to the dead walker’s skull as a way to release his pent up anger, before turning to walk away from the man in front of him.

“Where are you going?” Jesus called out as he watched the extremely dishevelled and slightly drunk hunter sulk away from him, swigging the remaining dribble of liquor at the bottom of the bottle before discarding it in a nearby bush.

“Away from you,” he replied, gruffly, refusing to turn back.

Jesus paused, the beats of silence allowing him to gather his thoughts as he contemplated whether to leave and let Daryl get on with his persistent suicide mission or to follow him. He knew that the former option would be easier; that if he continued hassling the redneck he would probably end up with some sort of physical injury, but he didn’t think that his conscious could handle leaving the man to get himself killed. And some part of him couldn’t bare to see the, usually strong, man so broken. And so he pulled his beanie down on his head, tucking a loose strand of his hair behind his ear and began trudging through the overgrow brambles and grass after the drunken man.

* * *

   


Jesus had been trailing behind Daryl for what seemed like hours; the early morning dawn had slowly transitioned in to the beating sun, glaring down on him until the bandana around his neck was drenched with sweat, his hair was now plastered to his face and he had been forced to strip out of his leather trench coat for fear of passing out from heat stroke.

Daryl was staggering about ten feet in front of him, angrily shoving overhanging branches out of his way, his pace gradually slowing as his energy dissipated, however he continued to bulldoze forwards without pause, no apparent destination in mind. It was only when the dirtied man came across a deflated bright green balloon impaled on the bough of a tree that he finally came to a sudden halt, staring at the item.

Jesus similarly came to a stop, making sure to keep his distance, watching as the older man’s shoulders sagged in defeat and his head dropped down in to his chest, his entire figure shaking as he clearly broke down in tears.

Paul watched on in confusion, puzzled as to why the balloon caught in the tree had triggered such an emotional reaction in Daryl.

Meanwhile, Daryl stood, almost forgetting the presence of the man behind him, as he allowed the sobs to wrack through his body, too consumed by grief and whiskey to even care about what Jesus thought of him and his breakdown. He remembered, how a few days after the group had cleared the herd out of the safe zone and burnt their bodies, he had sat down next to Glenn on the lumpy sofa that took up the majority of the space in their living room, whilst Maggie cooked dinner for the three of them in the kitchen, and the younger man had told him about what had happened to him on the way back to ASZ; how Nicholas has taken his own life, how he had been forced to curl up under a dumpster to hide from the undead until Enid had found him, how he had convinced the temperamental girl to accompany him back and her bright idea to use the balloons to signal their return.

He had gone through all of that in order to do what he had always done; to get back to Maggie.

 _“Maggie, I’ll find you,”_ Glenn’s final, choked words echoed in Daryl’s brain, over and over again until it was all he could hear.

It pained Daryl to think that after everything the other man had been through, it was all for nothing, thanks to his own selfish outburst. He allowed the tears to stream freely down his cheeks as he stood, surrounded by nothing but trees and his unlikely companion, finally allowing his bottled up emotions to pour out. Daryl wasn’t one to cry, especially in front of someone that he barely knew, but this time it felt like he was drowning in despair; his lungs gulping desperately for oxygen, arms wrapped protectively around his torso and vision blurred from tears.

Images flashed in his mind like a gruesome slideshow; his brother hunched ravenously over the corpse of one of the Governor’s men, flesh and blood dripping from his mouth, Hershel – the kindest and most peaceful man that he had ever met – bent on his knees like a prisoner, mercilessly beheaded in front of his family. Then came Beth, a shining light in a world of darkness, her brains splattering against the white walls of the hospital, and Maggie’s devastating reaction as any hope of a reunion with her last surviving family member was stolen away, and finally Denise; someone who was pushed him to express himself and chose to see the good in people, pierced through the eye with his own weapon, her lifeless body falling in to his arms.

All he could do was suffocate in thoughts of what he could have done; he _should_ have stopped his brother from chasing after The Governor, _should_ have killed the one-eyed foe before he had the chance to get his hands on Hershel and Michonne, _should_ have never let himself get separated from Beth, _should_ never have allowed Denise to leave the safety of the walls of Alexandria. He _should_ have stayed still, _should_ have listened to Negan’s orders, _should_ have restrained himself from punching the villain.

There were too many things that he should have done.

He barely even noticed when Jesus moved forwards to stand behind him, resting a reassuring hand atop of his shoulder. He didn’t have the energy to shrug the man’s hand off, and deep down he didn’t really want to. He couldn’t admit it to himself but the contact was almost comforting, if anything it worked to ease the pain coursing through him.

“It’s not your fault, you know?” the younger man’s soft voice cut through the deafening silence, somehow able to detect that Daryl was being swamped with grief and self-hatred.

Daryl almost scoffed at his words; how would he know? The two men barely knew each other, how could he possibly know what Daryl had done? But somehow, despite the unfamiliarity between them, Daryl almost believed him. Almost.

“You dunno anything,” Daryl attempted to control the tremor in his voice, wiping furiously at the tears rolling down his cheeks with the back of his filthy hand.

“I know…” Jesus took a deep breath, as if attempting to control his nerves, “I know that you blame yourself for what happened to Glenn.”

Daryl was poised to interrupt, ready to argue that he was at fault but Paul didn’t give him a chance.

“But I know what Negan’s like; he’s cruel and he’s vindictive and he feeds off of hurting others. He knew who he was going to kill; it wasn’t random or spontaneous and it definitely wasn’t your fault. He would have killed someone else whether you interfered or not; your actions just gave him an excuse.”

Daryl took a moment to process the younger man’s words; some part of him knew that he wasn’t to blame, knew that the only person at fault was the cold-blooded murderer who had beaten Glenn to death, and that none of his family held him accountable.

“He should have killed me,” was the only response that he could give Jesus, lungs gasping as he choked on sobs. “It should have been me.”

Jesus looked back at him, bright blue eyes staring deep in to his own blood-shot ones. The younger man paused for a moment, as if deciding what the next appropriate action was, before hesitantly moving closer to Daryl, arms outstretched. He paused before wrapping his skinny arms around the other man’s body, giving Daryl an opportunity to push him off, but he done no such thing, and so Jesus proceeded, embracing the hunter.

It was awkward at first, Jesus with his arms wrapped tightly around Daryl, whilst the other man stood stiff, unsure of what to do and not used to this type of physical contact. Usually, if anyone ever tried to touch Daryl he would shy away, shove them off even, but with Paul he wasn’t inclined to do so; his touch was warm and consoling. Daryl liked it. And so after some hesitation, Daryl decided to reciprocate the action, lifting his arms so that they were loosely wrapped around the taller man’s middle, allowing himself to relax in to the embrace.

He could slowly feel his walls, that were usually so impenetrable, chip away as they stood together in the middle of the woods, until he allowed himself to let it all out; eventually ending up crying miserably in to the other man’s shoulder as the sun filtered down on them through the leaves. If Jesus cared that Daryl’s tears were being soaked up by his t-shirt or the fact that the dirt and filth on his skin was rubbing off on him, he didn’t let on; he merely stood, holding the scruffy man, whispering words of comfort in to his ear.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he told him, over and over again.

And with every repetition, Daryl slowly started to think that maybe he was telling the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twitter: @grimeslincoln


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry it's taken me so long to update this, I've had serious writers block this week! Thank you for all of the positive feedback on this fic, I hope you enjoy this new chapter!!

The midday sun glared down on to the beat up pick up truck, that was brown with rust, as it rumbled down the barren road, engine spluttering unhealthily and one of the brake lights smashed to pieces. Tara’s back groaned in pain as she sat in the cramped cabin of the truck, one of the springs poking out from the ripped material of the seat and digging in to the bottom of her spine. Her hair was wet with sweat, face splattered with dried mud and clothes stained by dark walker blood. She was flung halfway in to the air as the old vehicle hit a bump in the otherwise empty road, her head whacking painfully against the roof of the truck.

“Sorry, sorry,” Heath muttered hurriedly as he swerved to miss a dip in the tarmac, risking a quick glance towards the woman besides him to check that he hadn’t accidentally flung her out of the window with his reckless driving. It had turned out that he was the best at operating the truck out of the two of them, considering that neither of them had managed to obtain a license before the apocalypse, and therefore he had become the designated driver on their journey.

Despite encountering the odd stray walker, the pairs run had been fairly uneventful; they’d had to stop occasionally to siphon gas for the long trip and had been forced to take a slightly longer route due to one of the roads being congested with the undead, however other than that, the entire run had gone smoothly and according to plan, and they’d ended up gathering a lot more supplies than they had originally intended.

Tara could see the walls of Alexandria protruding out above the tree tops as they drove down the road that lead to the community, her heart pounding in her chest and butterflies fluttering excitedly in her stomach at the thought of seeing her family again. The past two weeks had been lonely; Tara was so used to being constantly surrounded by the familiar faces of her friends and eventually, after spending a fortnight alone with Heath (who, despite being friendly, she still barely knew him), she had begun to feel isolated. She longed to hear the bright laughter of her friends, to be caught up once again in the peaceful idealistic community of Alexandria. The past fourteen days on the road had reminded her of how fortunate they had been to stumble upon such a well-protected society, how lucky they were to have the walls to protect them from the undead and to be able to sleep on a mattress at night without having to constantly keep one eye open.

Tara was distracted from her thoughts as the Safe Zone came in to view, the walls protruding in to the sky like a fortress, the people guarding on top of it nothing but an indistinguishable blur. A stray walker ambled along the deserted road, devoid of any purpose, whilst another hung, impaled on of of the spikes that had been fitted to the cars that lined the street. Tara was unable to conceal the excitement that bubbled inside the pit of her stomach as Heath brought the rusty truck to a swift halt in front of the gates.

Whoever was on guard has obviously been alerted to the presence of new arrivals by the hum of the old engine, because the inner gate was pulled back almost immediately, to reveal the recognisable face of Spencer. He was hardly the first person that Tara wanted to be greeted by, but his presence done little to quash her anticipation as he pulled open the gate, the metal groaning as he done so. Heath pressed his foot down on to the ignition, easing the spluttering truck through the gates, which were closed swiftly behind them.

Tara sat for a moment in the passenger seat, admiring the tranquillity of the space around her; Alexandria was an oasis in a barren, dying world, and it had only taken her a few days, out on the road, blending in with the dead, for her to realise it. She was so overcome by the excitement of being back home that she failed to recognise the solemn, morbid fog that had settled over the community, like a heavy blanket of grief; the houses were locked tight, with the curtains drawn, parents kept their children close to their side instead of letting them run off to play, and neighbours merely nodded in greeting as they passed each other, instead of stopping to idly converse.

“Come on, I need to get out of this rust bucket before the damn thing collapses,” Heath broke the silence that had settled, pushing his driver door open with a strong shove, hopping out. Tara followed his lead, slipping out of the cabin, her trainers settling on to the gravel. She glanced around, a grin immediately spreading across her features as her eyes landed on the group of people awaiting her; Rick and Maggie stood side by side whilst Eugene and Rosita hovered a few feet away from them.

Tara couldn’t help but search for her girlfriend’s face among her friends, having hoped that Denise would be there to greet her after two long weeks of being separated from her. She’s probably just with a patient, Tara reminded herself.

Maggie was the first to step forwards, arms outstretched and welcoming. Tara didn’t hesitate before allowing herself to be enveloped in the other woman’s embrace, the warm contact a welcome contrast to the isolation that had consumed her for the past fortnight. Maggie’s arms were tight around her torso, and a nagging in the back of Tara’s mind couldn’t help but notice how much thinner she seemed, as if she could almost feel her ribs poking through her skin. Tara broke away after a few more seconds of savouring the touch, pulling back to get a better look at her friend, too consumed by her own excitement to notice the way the older woman’s smile appeared almost painful.

“I’m liking the new look,” Tara commented with a smirk, gesturing towards Maggie’s hair, which had been cut much shorter since the last time she had seen her.

Rosita was next up, pulling Tara in to a bear hug before she could even process what was happening. Tara immediately returned the gesture, snaking her arms around the other woman, allowing her head to rest on her shoulder.

“I missed you,” Rosita’s voice was a whisper, and Tara almost missed the way that it cracked with emotion. Rosita pulled away, flicking Tara a tight smile before turning away, attempting to swallow down her rising tears.

 _She must have missed me more than I thought_ , her brain attempted to rationalise Rosita’s uncharacteristic emotions.

Eugene approached her next, one arm extended with a clenched fist. Tara immediately bumped her knuckles against his, smiling fondly at the aloof man in front of her.

“I’m glad that you’re back safe, Tara. I’ve missed your acquaintance these past two weeks,” he told her, voice monotone, as usual.

“Thanks Eugene.”

She glanced around at the people surrounding her, eyes searching for the missing members of her family that she had expected to be there to welcome her home.

“Where’s Glenn? I thought he would have been here,” she aimed her question at Maggie, missing the woman’s sharp intake of breath at the mention of her husband’s name. Tara was oblivious to the deadly silence that had fallen over the group, unable to sense how everybody was simultaneously holding their breath in suspense.

“I managed to get hold of a copy of that stupid sci-fi film that he’s being going on about for months; thought we could hook it up to that projector I found in Denise’s house, make a movie night out of it, maybe even…” Tara slowly trailed off from her enthusiastic ramble, smile falling as she sensed the mood, finally noticing the heavy bags that lined Maggie’s eyes and the tear tracks staining Rosita’s cheeks.

Her heart thumped anxiously in her ribcage, her body becoming consumed with an overwhelming sense of dread.

“W-where is he? What happened? Is he okay?” Tara’s tone was frantic and desperate, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at Maggie, her chest tightening in fear as she noticed the older woman’s watery eyes.

Nobody answered her question for a moment, an ever-lasting beat of thick silence passing between them.

Maggie took a shaky breath, attempting to compose herself; “Tara…Glenn, he-he’s gone.”

Tara observed in horror as Maggie was overcome with emotion; choking on sobs, face flooding with tears, arms wrapped protectively around her body. Her words sounded distant and far away, as if she was talking to her through a tunnel. The younger woman felt as though she had been punched in the gut; the breath suddenly being ripped from her body, lungs gasping desperately for any oxygen that they could find.

_This couldn’t be happening. They had to be lying._

Tara’s head whipped around to stare at her devastated friends, her face ghostly pale and wrought with panic. She expected them to burst in to laughter, to tell her that it was just a stupid joke and that she should have seen her face. But they didn’t. They just stood there, silent and still, eyes glazed over with pity.

“M-Maggie,” Tara managed to stammer, her voice barely audible, “please tell me that you’re joking.”

Maggie failed to reply, merely staring back at the other woman with tear filled eyes.

“W-why? I mean…h-how?” Tara’s face scrunched up in confusion; she felt as though the floor had collapsed beneath her feet, leaving her suspended in a frenzied pit of panic.

It felt like only the day before that she was being held in the other man’s grasp, telling him goodbye, staring up at his innocent face and thinking about how much she was going to miss him over the time that she was away. Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but the only sound that escaped was a pained whimper, acting as a signal for Rosita to approach Tara, resting a gentle hand on her shaking shoulder, gazing at her sympathetically.

“This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening,” Tara muttered under her breath, staring distantly at a random spot in front of her vision, attempting to process the information that had been thrown at her. An image of Glenn’s bright face flashed in her mind; a grin spread over his features, eyes crinkled with laughter. She thought of his positive outlook on the world, of his pure excitement when he had announced Maggie’s pregnancy to her and how ecstatic he had been at the thought of raising a child with the woman that he loved.

He couldn’t be gone.

“Tara, there-there’s more.” Rosita drew Tara’s attention back to her, her tone uncertain and wary. Tara’s chest constricted at her words, wracking her brain for options of what she could possibly mean. “Abraham…he’s dead,” Tara could feel the grief devouring her, every word like another blow. A persisting thought in the back of her mind pushed its way to the forefront; she knew what Rosita’s following words would be;

“And…and so is Denise. I’m so sorry.”

Before Tara could even think to respond she found herself crumpled on the gravel ground, her shaking legs having crumbled beneath her, unable to support the weight of her body. Her mind felt empty; her brain unable to absorb the information that it had been bombarded with in the past few minutes. She barely noticed the way that her body was violently shaking, or the uncontrollable flow of tears that had made their way down her cheeks.

They couldn’t just be gone. Three people couldn’t have just disappeared from her life in the blink of an eye.

Her mind flipped to Denise; the shining light in this otherwise gloomy world. Someone so decent, and far more virtuous than the world deserved, untainted by the clutches of the evil that surrounded them. She could still feel the ghost of her fingertips against her skin, the taste of her lips against her own. Pain ripped through her chest like a serrated knife at the thought of how, mere minutes ago she had been waiting to see her beautiful face, to be held in her arms after being away from her for what felt like a lifetime. And now she was never going to see her again, never be blessed by the sound of her soothing voice or get to feel her skin against hers.

“She never got to tell me…” Tara managed to choke out through her sobs, “she never got to tell me that she loved me.”

 Tara flinched as she felt Rosita crouch down beside her, slender fingers wrapping around the base of her neck, forcing Tara to lift her head to meet her eyes.

“She did. Do you hear me; she loved you. Hold on to that.”

Tara hesitated before forcing herself to nod through her anguish, eventually allowing herself to be held in the other woman’s arms, face nuzzled in to her shoulder and tears dampening the material of Rosita’s shirt.

“She loved me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments help me write faster...

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to AMC. No copyright infringement intended.


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